


immeasurably. irrevocably. inkredibly.

by aiyah



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bottom Zuko (Avatar), Clown-to-Clown Communication, Enthusiastic Consent, Fluff, M/M, Magical Realism, Nurse Sokka, Smut, Tattoo Artist Zuko, Tattoos, Top Sokka (Avatar)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:42:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26845339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aiyah/pseuds/aiyah
Summary: if the body is a temple, then tattoos are its stained glass windows.- Sylvia Plath[alternatively: Sokka will do literally anything to get a peek inside the heart of that cantankerous tattoo artist from The Jasmine Dragon.]
Relationships: Sokka/Zuko (Avatar)
Comments: 27
Kudos: 637





	immeasurably. irrevocably. inkredibly.

**Author's Note:**

> this has been stuck in my head since borscht knows how long and i finally wrote it out : ^ )

✦ ✧ ✦

Bad ideas have a tendency to come from the same place, and like all of the bad ideas in Sokka’s life, this one comes courtesy of Jet. Mainly because any ideas coming from Sokka’s insufferable coworker are bound to have their fair share of danger and risk.

(Not to mention the fact that Aang had backed him up. Imagine that. _Aang_ , of all people—reasonable, somewhat naïve, has-your-best-intentions-in-his-heart Aang—backing Jet up. That’s honestly the only reason why Sokka had taken the suggestion into account in the first place. He’s sure that Aang won’t lead him into harm’s way. Jet? Not so much.)

Sokka realizes this sobering fact as soon as he climbs out of the subway station and into the glaring hot summer sun before making his way towards a dimly lit street off the main road. Leave it to Jet to find the most mysterious, back-alley-looking place for—

Ah. And there it is. Sokka squints as he peers up at the glowing sign. _The Jasmine Dragon_ winks down at him in neon green, right above a tiny, nondescript shopfront. For a moment, Sokka wonders if he’s actually come to the right place. (He swears on Tui and La that he will positively throttle the eager-beaver premed’s throat if he’s playing any tricks, Nightingale Pledge be damned.) Sokka hasn’t spent the past two months studying and acing his NCLEX exam just to be played a fool by Jet.

As Sokka takes a breath to calm his trembling nerves, he vaguely remembers how he even ended up here in the first place, how he’d put off taking his licensing exam until months after graduation and, instead, spent time abroad volunteering in a mobile nursing clinic abroad. How he’d jumped for joy when the results came in, whooping so loudly that Katara had to come into his room to tell him to _shut up, I’m studying for my LSATs_ and Gran Gran had made his favorite akutaq with cranberries and raspberries to celebrate the moment. How he’d strutted into the ward with the biggest smile on his face before telling Jet about his plans to commemorate his achievement in the best way possible.

The door swings open, bells chiming gently from above as Sokka steps into a room that looks nothing like what he’s expecting out of a tattoo shop. The walls are bare eggshell white, a blank canvas except for the large painting of a dragon hanging in the corner of the room. A few chairs are arranged against the wall but nothing more. Sokka can smell something sweet and floral, odd yet familiar as he walks towards the register and the person sitting behind it.

“Um, excuse me?” Because Sokka’s just great at first impressions. “I was wondering if I—”

The person looks up, and whatever Sokka’s hoping to say next lodges itself in his throat. Mom may have always said that _staring at people is bad, Sokka!_ but she has clearly never seen someone as hot as the guy glaring at him right now, a glint of annoyance in his searing honey eyes. Sokka’s self-control trips and yeets itself down a proverbial hill, and he can’t help but stare in awe because _damn, this guy is stupid pretty_ , from his pretty eyes to his pretty hair to his pretty fingers that curl up into barely-there fists.

(Even the scar on his left cheek—as rough and mottled as it looks—is pretty, in an unearthly way. Sokka feels like he’s seeing a spirit or some woodland nymph for the first time, like one who just crawled out of one of those children’s books he reads to the kids in his free time.)

Sokka thinks this otherworldly creature is the most gorgeous guy he’s ever seen—until the guy opens his mouth.

“We don’t do walk-ins,” Gorgeous Guy practically growls, a rumble that sends an avalanche of shock down Sokka’s spine because _oh spirits, where did that voice come from?_

“Huh? I mean, my friend—”

“We don’t. Do walk-ins.” Gorgeous Guy closes his book with a snap, and Sokka barely has a chance to peek at the title—Kafka’s _The Trial_ , really?—before the book disappears under the counter.

“Um, can I just come back later or—”

Gorgeous Guy brandishes a ballpoint pen and a notepad in Sokka’s general direction. “Make an appointment. Then we’ll talk.”

 _Jet never said anything about how cranky the staff would be_. Sokka makes a mental note to tell Jet about it before he grabs the pen and the notepad before scribbling down his name.

A sound of rustling fabric, and an old man totters out from behind a doorway, eyes widening in amusement. “Zuko! Is that any way to treat an esteemed guest?”

_Zuko?_

So this is the Zuko that Jet was talking about, the guy who does tattoos with a twist. Even better? Now Sokka has a name to that gorgeous face. _Zuko_ , he whispers in his head, the _k_ cutting on the edge of his tongue. Zuko suits Gorgeous Guy.

“But uncle, he just walked in without an appointment!” Gorgeous—wait, no, _Zuko_ —protests, tone shifting from annoyed to pleading in an instant. “You know our policy states that—”

“Policies, schmolicies,” the old man shakes his head before extending a hand towards Sokka. “My name’s Iroh. Welcome to _The Jasmine Dragon_. How can we help you today?”

Sokka swears that Iroh’s grip is stronger than iron. “Um, I wanted to get a tattoo?”

Zuko snorts from behind the counter. “No shit, Sherlock. We’re a _tattoo shop_.”

(Sokka resists the impulse to put Zuko on his must-throttle-list after Jet. Just because the guy is damn hot doesn’t mean he isn’t infuriating as fuck.)

“Now, now Zuko,” Iroh chides. “What did I tell you about serving customers?”

Zuko glares, and Sokka swears that those honey-amber eyes are positively smoldering straight into his chest. Warmth licks against the sides of his lungs like fire-smoke, and for a moment, Sokka wonders if he’s still breathing.

“It’s my bad, I should’ve been clearer about it,” Sokka replies. “My friends recommended this place to me, so I thought I’d check it out.” He turns to face Zuko head-on. “And they said Zuko is the best there is.”

( _Oh, don’t you go all blushing on me now_ , Sokka thinks in satisfaction as he watches the other guy turn a curious shade of crimson. _Oh, fuck. He’s even more adorable this way_.)

“Of course, of course! My nephew is quite the talented artist,” Iroh nods sagely. “I’m sure Zuko would be honored to help you out today.”

“But uncle—”

“No buts.” Iroh shakes his head again. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a previous engagement. Zuko, remember to clean up before closing.”

“You don’t have to remind me—” Zuko looks over at the swinging bells as the front door swings closed. He huffs before slinking out from behind the register and pulling himself up. He’s tall, almost as tall as Sokka but not quite, with ink-black hair tied in a messy ponytail that sweeps past his shoulders and the sharp eyebrows to match. “Would you like to take a seat?”

Sokka slides into the chair and tries not to look in the mirror as much. He doesn’t want to know if he’s also blushing as much as Zuko. He doesn’t _need_ to know.

( _Fuck, can I still do a pulse point assessment? Do I even remember how to do that? Is my heart rate in an acceptable range?_ )

“So what design would you like? And where would you like it?” Zuko flips open a sketchpad and pulls a pen out of Tui-knows-where. He’s perched on a stool right next to Sokka, eyes darting back and forth from Sokka to the mirror and back.

(Evidently, having twice as much Sokka in the room is also a bit much for Zuko to handle.)

“I mean, I know I want it on my arm—” Sokka shrugs off his T-shirt and points to his upper arm, smirking when he sees Zuko’s eyes widening just a fraction more. “Right here. But for the design, um, I was hoping I could leave it up to you? ”

Zuko snorts as he turns back towards his sketchpad. “The design? I must inform you that tattoos are permanent, valued customer. What you choose to have on your body must be all by your design.”

“I know that!” Sokka crosses his arms defensively, because he doesn’t have the patience to argue with anyone, much less Zuko. He’s already spending most of his time at work handling cranky and argumentative patients; he doesn’t need to put up with this in his free time. “And I’m Sokka, remember?”

“My apologies, Sokka,” Zuko replies, but there’s less of a bite in his voice. “I’m happy to help you brainstorm ideas for a design, if that would be more satisfactory? Perhaps you could tell me what you would like your tattoo to convey.”

“And it’s Zuko,” he says after a pause, eyes twinkling. “Not _dude_.”

( _My, he’s definitely feisty alright_.)

“I want something cool,” Sokka says after a while, because being in the hospital literally 24/7 is enough to suck out anyone’s creativity. “Something dope.”

“You and every other customer I’ve ever had,” Zuko taps his pen against the counter. “Perhaps you could be a bit more specific?”

Sokka shrugs helplessly. So maybe it wasn’t the greatest idea to come strolling into a tattoo shop right after the morning shift without even thinking about what he wants etched on his body. Aang and Jet had helpfully provided a laundry list of suggestions, but Sokka’s already thrown all of them out because they were either silly (Aang) or borderline ridiculous (Jet). Anxiety pulls on his gut, and Sokka’s beginning to wonder if he should just walk out of The Jasmine Dragon and leave his remaining dignity intact.

“Though I do have another option that you might find appealing,” Zuko says.

“What’s that?”

“Do you really want to leave the design up to me?”

The Jasmine Dragon falls silent, save for the humming sounds of meditation music echoing from the ceiling. Sokka turns and looks straight into Zuko’s eyes. There’s no sign of deception, no annoyance—just a soft gaze of determination as Zuko stares back.

“Yeah,” Sokka nods. “Yeah. I trust you.”

He can see Zuko’s shoulders tensing for a short moment before relaxing once more. He places the notepad on the counter and opens a drawer, pulling out a handful of Sharpies and a pair of disposable gloves. “Very well. Shall we begin?”

The next thirty minutes are the quietest thirty minutes Sokka’s had in a while, just sitting there, trying not to stare unabashedly at Zuko as the tattoo artist cleans and shaves Sokka’s arm before painting feather-light strokes of Sharpie in shades of orange, red, black. The Sharpies tickle, but Sokka’s dealt with his fair share of face-painting and doodling to stay still. When Zuko finally sits up and finishes his design with a final flourish, it takes all of Sokka’s willpower not to gasp aloud.

A fiery phoenix roosts on his arm, its head turned towards Sokka’s shoulder, red-orange tail feathers flowing down towards his elbow and fading into sky blue at the tips. Sokka can’t believe how delicate the bird looks. He half-expects it to flutter off his skin and into the air of The Jasmine Dragon with a furious cry of triumph.

“Damn, that’s smooth,” Sokka mutters, because how else is he supposed to lavish praise on the most perfect tattoo he’s ever seen?

“I’m glad that you like it,” Zuko replies as he begins to assemble a row of ink caps, pouring black ink into each before inspecting the tattoo pen. “You are aware of the tattoos that we specialize in, yes?”

“Uh, I think my friend gave me a rundown of it?” To be fair, Sokka was in the middle of filling out paperwork when Jet began talking his ear off about tattoos. “Like the lining and the shading, right? I forgot what it’s called.”

Zuko almost looks amused. “Tebori, Sokka. Yes, we line all of our tattoos using the machine, but everything else is done with tebori, freehand traditional tattooing.”

“Alright, sounds good to me.” Sokka stretches his arm on the support and steels himself as Zuko dabs on some ointment.

“Let me know when you’re ready.”

“Good to go,” Sokka gives him a thumbs-up with his free hand before bracing himself for the inevitable pain. In his defense, he’s done enough research about what to expect for tattoos, especially about the pain and the aftercare. It’s Sokka’s own body, after all. He’s going to take good care of himself.

But nothing, not even the poking and prodding in his healthcare classes could’ve prepared him for the pain when Zuko touches the tattoo pen against his skin and starts to draw. Sure, Sokka’s had his fair share of needles—I mean, it kinda comes with the job—but he’s never experienced the hot, itchy pain spreading across his arm like a prickling fire. The process isn’t overwhelmingly painful, but it’s definitely boring. Sokka amuses himself by staring up at the ceiling in all its alabaster glory, then at Zuko, then ceiling, then Zuko again. The tattoo artist’s forehead is furrowed in concentration, lips pursed as he painstakingly carves line after line of ebony into Sokka’s skin. Sokka wonders if he even has another chance to get on Zuko’s good side. There’s honestly nothing more he would like than to talk to Zuko once again (except for, well, maybe finally getting Jet to shut up).

“Can you stop squirming so much?” Zuko asks after a while when he motions to refill the ink caps. “I’d hate to give you a sloppy-looking tattoo.”

“Sorry about that,” Sokka shuffles one last time before concentrating straight ahead in the mirror. Mirror Zuko is pale but not overly so, a stark contrast to the blades of black falling over his shoulder from his ponytail. Sokka’s honestly surprised that he hasn’t seen a single drop of ink, a single stain of color anywhere on Zuko’s arms.

“Hey, Zuko?”

The tattoo artist grunts.

“Hey, you got any tattoos?”

Silence, save for the buzzing of the tattoo pen against Sokka’s arm. There’s nothing Sokka can do except sit there and stare into the mirror, wondering if the buzzing has always been so calming before his eyelids droop down and darkness takes him.

Sokka comes to with a damp towel over his face, a pair of hazel eyes staring worriedly at him. Zuko frowns as he continues to wipe away at Sokka’s forehead.

“I thought you passed out,” the tattoo artist begins, shoulders slumping in relief. “And I’ve never had anyone who passed out during a session before, and you have no idea how worried I was when I finished lining the design and looked up to see you slumped over and thinking _oh, Agni, what have I done?_ and what I was going to say to my uncle about this if he asks, because he always asks about the stunning guys who come into the shop, and especially the ones who give me a hard time and—”

“Wait, wait a sec.” Sokka holds up his right arm. “Pause. Rewind. Hold on. Two things. Number one, I didn’t pass out. I just fell asleep.”

“Okay?” Zuko doesn’t look entirely convinced.

“And number two.” Sokka slides closer towards Zuko, ignoring the ache in his left arm as he braces himself against the chair. “You think I’m stunning?”

Zuko doesn’t say anything, his answer as clear as the blush rising in his face.

“Because I’ve been trying to think about how I was going to talk to you this _entire_ time,” Sokka winks, smirking as Zuko’s cheeks flower with red once more.

“Cool it,” the tattoo artist bonks a container of salve against Sokka’s forehead, grinning wickedly when Sokka reels away in shock. “We still have two more sessions, at least. I need you to remember to wash your tattoo twice a day, then apply this ointment on your skin. It’ll help with healing and protecting.”

Sokka’s still smirking when he leaves The Jasmine Dragon, forehead slightly bruised but ego completely intact.

✦ ✧ ✦

On his second session, Sokka comes to The Jasmine Dragon prepared—

—with questions, of course. He has a thousand things he wants to ask Zuko, a thousand puzzle pieces to put together the enigma of the tattoo artist. And Zuko’s surprisingly enthusiastic this time, laying out a row of metal-tipped bamboo rods that look less like tattoo pens and more like the scalpels that Sokka’s used to seeing in class.

“I’m going to need you to hold your arm right here,” Zuko guides Sokka’s arm against the counter. “Make sure you hold tight. I need both hands for tebori. And look away. It helps with the pain.”

“Why?” Sokka asks, but Zuko’s already starting, another painful itch building up in Sokka’s skin as the bamboo stick jabs repeatedly into his arm. Sokka looks up at the ceiling, praying to every spirit in the realm to keep him from actually passing out this time.

“Can I talk?” Sokka asks, because the shop is much too quiet for his liking, especially since he’s used to the chattering and yelling of kids from work.

Zuko grunts. Sokka rolls his eyes—of _course_ the tattoo artist would still be a little standoffish, holding Sokka at a literal arm’s length as he continues to poke mercilessly into Sokka’s skin with that bamboo rod of his.

Sokka talks. And talks and talks. He babbles about his job, about how he recently graduated from nursing school and is now working in the pediatric ward of the local hospital. He rambles on about Aang, the bubbly freshman who volunteers at the front desk and about Jet, the cutthroat premed who works the night shift and has a soft spot for the littlest patients in the ward. It’s supposed to be Freedom Fighter Friday, and Sokka feels a twinge of sadness that he’s missing out on the weekly festivities. He remembers the kids talking about dressing up as pirates. Aang had even gone out to buy an assortment of bandanas and eyepatches for everyone. And Sokka’s not there to see them.

“You really care about children, don’t you,” Zuko says, and it isn’t even a question.

Sokka tries not to get all misty-eyed, especially in a tattoo shop of all places. “Yeah, I really like kids.”

“So do I,” Zuko offers as he pauses to adjust his seat. “I thought about being a teacher once, actually.”

 _Teacher?_ Sokka stares at mirror Zuko in surprise. Zuko? Cranky, aloof, skittish-as-cat Zuko?

“You’re judging me, aren’t you,” the tattoo artist mutters from somewhere around Sokka’s arm.

“Nope, not at all.” Sokka starts to lift both arms up in protest, only for a gloved hand to force his left arm back down against the counter.

“I thought I told you to stay still.”

“Oops, sorry. My bad, dude.”

Zuko hums as he continues to punch a line of color through Sokka’s arm. “I thought I told you to call me Zuko.”

“Dude, I call everyone dude, _dude_.” Sokka almost yelps in surprise as the bamboo rod jabs in a bit deeper than he’d expected.

“Glad to see that I’m part of your everyone,” Zuko retorts, only to go pink at the words he just said.

Sokka chuckles. “You jealous or something?”

“No.”

“Didn’t peg you for the jealous type— _hey!_ ” Sokka twitches when the bamboo rod pokes in again. “What was that for?”

“Hush, I’m trying to concentrate.”

The next few minutes pass in silence, with only the rhythmic sound of the bamboo rod scratching into Sokka’s arm and poking the phoenix to life. Sokka can feel Zuko’s hand, all warm and strong as the tattoo artist grasps Sokka’s arm to hold it in place. If he stops moving so much, he can almost feel Zuko’s breath sweeping along his exposed shoulder.

By the time Zuko’s finished with his shading, the lights inside The Jasmine Dragon are brighter than the streetlamps outside, the sun having waved goodbye hours before. Sokka watches as Zuko slathers on another layer of ointment over the tattoo before wrapping it in plastic wrap and securing it in place before reaching down to clean his bamboo rods.

“Sorry ‘bout that.”

Zuko looks up. “Sorry about what?”

“About taking so long. Maybe I should’ve made an earlier appointment.”

“It’s fine, Sokka. It’s always an honor to work on such a beautiful design,” Zuko replies, and for a moment, Sokka pretends that Zuko’s talking about _him_ instead of the tattoo.

“I’ll make it up to you, okay?” Sokka pulls on his T-shirt and rolls his shoulders, wincing at the itchiness and the soreness from sitting still for so long. “You hungry? Wanna get something to eat?”

“That would be nice,” Zuko smiles at him and Sokka’s heart practically melts at the sight.

Like all great dinners, the two of them find themselves sitting inside Chick-fil-A—or Prejudiced Poultry, as Sokka likes to call it. (Well, his friend Suki came up with the name. Sokka’s just using it because he can.) Sokka can’t remember the last time he’s had such a mediocre yet delicious chicken sandwich, but seeing Zuko dig into his sandwich with gusto is definitely a plus. (And the Chick-fil-A sauce. Sokka’s almost forgotten how addictive the sauce can be.)

“How’d you even end up doing tattoos in the first place?” Sokka asks as he pulls out a crispy waffle fry.

“It’s a long story.” Zuko taps his fingers against the table.

“Well, I got time, and I got fries.” Sokka picks up another waffle fry and dangles it in Zuko’s face. “So tell me.”

And with each waffle fry consumed, Sokka learns more and more about Zuko, about how the tattoo artist had actually studied poli sci in college before noping out of capitalistic society and pursuing fine arts instead, about the time he’d spent abroad studying traditional Japanese tattooing techniques with his uncle’s best friend before flying back home and opening up The Jasmine Dragon, about his little sister who brings her friends into the shop all the time and telling people just how wonderful of an artist Zuko really is.

“Poli sci, huh.” Sokka slurps on his lemonade.

Zuko folds up his sandwich wrapper and tosses it into the trash with a practiced hand. “That’s honestly all there is to it. I’m not exactly the most interesting person in the world.”

“You seem plenty interesting to me.”

“Hm, you’re just trying to flatter me, aren’t you.” Zuko raises his eyebrow.

“Zuko, _please_ ,” and Sokka’s looking for a way to segue into a different conversation. “So. Can I ask about the scar?”

He watches as Zuko unconsciously reaches to touch his cheek. “That’s more of a second-date type of question, isn’t it?”

“Are you telling me that there’s going to be a second date?”

Zuko blinks. “Are _you_ asking me out on a date?”

“I don’t know,” Sokka looks helplessly. “Was this a date?”

Zuko doesn’t look any less confused. “Was it?”

“Maybe, maybe not?” Sokka scoots out of the booth to throw away the rest of their trash. “It all depends on what you want.”

“Well, I’d love to thank you for a lovely _date_ ,” the tattoo artist whispers _date_ and it curls deliciously into Sokka’s ears, “but I really must be going. It’s getting a bit late for my taste.”

“Yeah, same here.”

But of course, the universe has other plans for the two of them, and the heavens pour forth K-drama-worthy rain to flood the streets outside. Sokka curses his luck. It _never_ rains like this in September. He hasn’t used an umbrella in months. Why was it raining like this now? Are Tui and La trying to tell him something?

“ _My place is closer if you want_ ,” he bellows over the chaos as pedestrians splash past them left and right, soaking both of them from head to toe. “ _If you wanna make a run for it?_ ”

Zuko nods, water trickling down his face in rivulets, and that’s when Sokka reaches out to clasp the tattoo artist’s hand into his own, pulling him down the street and in the direction towards his apartment. Sokka’s jacket is clinging to his arms in the ickiest way possible, but the only thing he can focus on is Zuko’s hand, burning bright and hot up Sokka’s arm and into his chest.

It takes Sokka a second to unlock his door and another second to drag Zuko through the entrance, the two of them pausing to pull off their wet shoes and socks and stumbling into Sokka’s living room.

“If you wanna go and wash up, I have some towels in the cabinet next to the sink,” Sokka points down the hall. “I’m gonna go dry our clothes and get you something to wear, if you’re okay with that.”

“That sounds great,” Zuko nods slightly, taking care not to splash rainwater everywhere. “And thanks a lot, Sokka. I really appreciate it.”

Sokka finally digs out an old T-shirt from a MEDLIFE event and some sweatpants, folding the clothes up and leaving them on a chair outside his bathroom. He can hear the shower running, water pattering while he manages to wipe up most of the water from the floor. Sokka tries not to imagine Zuko inside the bathroom. Sokka’s not allowed to think about that. He’s not about to ruin whatever thing they’ve finally managed to reach together.

(Is Sokka that desperate for a second date?)

(Definitely.)

Forty minutes later finds both of them curled up on Sokka’s lumpy couch, Zuko idly scrolling through channels on the TV while Sokka checks his phone for any messages from work. Well, at least that’s Sokka’s excuse. He doesn’t think he can face Zuko again, not after seeing the tattoo artist slipping into the living room wearing nothing but the T-shirt fluttering against his knees because _the sweatpants were too big, although I appreciated the gesture_. Sokka’s never been more grateful for all the meditation and etiquette classes he’s taken. Mom would _definitely_ disapprove of him staring at Zuko now.

“See?” Sokka pulls up a picture of Jet dressed as a pirate and shows it to Zuko. “That’s the friend I was talking about. The one who recommended your place.”

He isn’t counting on Zuko’s eyes widening in shock. “Jet?”

“Huh? You know him? From where?” Sokka brandishes his mental checklist and prepares to write down his list of blackmail against Jet.

Zuko pauses. “We… we may have gone on a few dates last year, but that was it.”

A surge of jealousy prickles in Sokka’s gut. Of _course_ Zuko’s gone on dates before. But with Jet? Seriously? That ridiculous premed? “You what now?”

“Look, it’s all in the past, okay?” Zuko drops the remote. “Jet’s really kind. He just wasn’t my type.”

“Then who is?”

Zuko blinks owlishly. “Now _that’s_ a second-date question.”

Sokka pokes him in the arm before grabbing the remote and switching channels. “Ooh, _The Blue Spirit_ is on? I’ve never watched the live-action version before.”

“That’s because the live-action version is an abomination.” Zuko tries to grab the remote from Sokka’s hand. “Do we really have to watch it?”

“My house, my rules. And I kinda want to see how N. Day Chekavan ruined it.”

“You really don’t.”

“But I think I do.” Sokka sneakily slips an arm around Zuko’s shoulders and cheers silently when Zuko just leans in closer. “How bad could it be?”

Spoiler alert: they don’t even make it through a third of the movie before Sokka decides to call it quits. For one thing, Chekavan’s transitional cuts are absolutely atrocious. (I mean, a janky-ass filter for the spirit world portion of the film? And the majestic-sounding score accompanying the final measly fight scene is enough to make anyone openly weep in pain. Sokka doesn’t think he’s been more frightened by a CGI fantasy animal until now.)

The other thing—well, not thing but _person_ , rather—is currently sidled up against his right arm. Zuko is sound asleep, his head is nestled against Sokka’s chest, his fingers gripping Sokka’s arm as his shoulders rise and fall with every breath.

Sitting there, watching the credits roll off the screen and practically holding Zuko in his arms, Sokka still thinks that Zuko’s the loveliest thing he’s ever seen. He reaches over to brush a strand of hair away from Zuko’s face, smiling when the tattoo artist hums sleepily and shifts even closer. Sokka’s arm is tingling but he doesn’t care.

And as Sokka’s eyelids begin to droop, he pulls Zuko closer, marveling at how their heartbeats pulse in time to each other. Sokka doesn’t think life can get any better than this. He hopes that life doesn’t get any better than this. He doesn’t want anything more than this.

(Well, with the exception of actually being together with Zuko, but that’s definitely a thought for another night.)

✦ ✧ ✦

When Sokka walks into work on Monday, he doesn’t expect to see Jet fall out of his chair in shock, much less bursting out into laughter.

“Bro, I didn’t know that you were going in to get a literal tattoo of a goldfish on your arm.” Jet is wiping his eyes. “This is the funniest shit I’ve ever seen.”

 _Wait, what?_ Sokka narrows his eyes. He’s not exactly in the mood for Jet’s games. (Correction: he’s never in the mood for Jet’s games.)

“I don’t have time for this.”

“No, seriously bro.” Jet recovers just enough to pull himself back onto his chair. “You have a goldfish on your arm.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Uh, yeah you do?” Jet points to Sokka’s arm. “It’s literally on your right arm.”

“That doesn’t even make sense! I got my tattoo on my—” Sokka looks down and yelps in the most undignified manner possible. There’s a tiny-ass goldfish painted around his wrist, all decked out in red-and-gold with the occasional splash of black in between each scale. The goldfish looks nothing like the phoenix hanging out on Sokka’s bicep. And Sokka’s 100% sure he’d notice if someone drew a _tattoo_ on his arm in the first place. (I mean, the pain alone would probably be enough. How the fuck did this goldfish get on his arm in the first place?)

Jet snorts. “You should find a way to cover it up before ol’ Macmu-Ling drops by for an ‘official’ visit and yells at you about professionalism. Just sayin’.”

“But I literally—” Sokka mutters as he walks into the bathroom, trying desperately to wash off the goldfish from his arm to no avail. The goldfish stubbornly clings onto his skin, and Sokka reluctantly digs around in the supplies until he finds a wrist support to wrap around his arm to conceal the goldfish from prying eyes.

It doesn’t work. By the time Sokka’s gone into Lee’s room to check the boy’s vitals, the goldfish has somehow managed to wiggle past the support and up towards Sokka’s elbow, much to Sokka’s confusion and Lee’s delight. When lunchtime rolls around, the goldfish is hanging around on Sokka’s shoulder, and he’s thankful that the sleeves of his scrubs are long enough to cover up the last wisps of the tail. Sokka _swears_ that there’s something spooky going on, and he tries not to pay any attention to it until he’s changing out of his scrubs and getting ready to go home. He rubs his eyes and blinks furiously before squinting at the mirror once again.

 _Nope, your eyes aren’t deceiving you_.

The goldfish is now circling the phoenix on Sokka’s bicep, the fish staring straight into the dark eyes of the bird that Zuko took almost an hour—

Wait.

Wait a minute.

 _Zuko_.

Sokka has no idea if Zuko’s playing a trick on him, if this is something that the tattoo artist would find funny or amusing. Red-hot rage fills his senses for a moment before dissipating into the air. _I’m going to go talk to Zuko right now_.

When Sokka finally reaches The Jasmine Dragon, the sky is an inky purple-pink and rippling with stars. He pushes through the door without preamble, watching as Zuko looks up from the register in surprise.

“Sokka! What are you doing—”

“Is this your idea of a trick?”

“—here. Wait, what do you mean?”

“I mean, I know that we kinda got off on the wrong foot, but I didn’t know that you hated me so much that you would do this to me.”

“Sokka, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“ _This_.” Sokka snaps, practically ripping his shirt at the seams as he pulls it off and points to the chaos on his bicep. “Why didn’t you tell me that you drew a fucking goldfish on my arm?”

Sokka’s anger fades away to concern when the tattoo artist blanches an unhealthy shade of white, his knuckles gripping the counter as he steadies himself.

“Are you okay, Zuko?”

“I didn’t realize—” Zuko takes a shuddering breath. “I thought this stopped a long time ago.”

“What do you mean?”

“Sokka, I need you to promise me that whatever I tell you next, you’ll keep it a secret.”

“Um, okay?” Sokka looks wildly around The Jasmine Dragon to see if anyone else is around. He’s totally caught off guard by Zuko’s reaction. Granted, he’s literally only known the tattoo artist for a few weeks, but one look into Zuko’s pleading face is enough.

Zuko rubs his eyes before slumping into his chair and clearing his throat. “When I was younger, I realized that if I lost myself while drawing, I could literally make things move on the page.”

“I don’t get it.” Sokka’s not an atheist, but he definitely doesn’t think much about the paranormal side of things.

“It’ll probably be easier to show you.” Zuko pulls out a sketchpad and flips to a clean sheet before pulling out a pen. Sokka watches as the tattoo artist squints with concentration and sketches out a flame-tipped candle on the page.

“I don’t see it.”

“Give it a minute,” Zuko whispers, and Sokka’s mouth practically drops open when he realizes that the candle is _flickering_ , the flame wavering from side to side as a small trail of ballpoint-blue smoke floats upwards on the page. Sure, Sokka watches his fair share of horror movies, but nothing beats seeing something spooky come to life (quite literally) in front of his eyes. And it’s not even Halloween yet.

“I—I—I think I need a moment,” Sokka pinches the bridge of his nose and slouches into the nearest chair. Leave it to him to get caught up in the most supernatural shit possible. Sokka can already hear all the shit his family’s going to give him if he _ever_ mentions this to them.

“It’s a trait in my family, I think,” Zuko continues, twisting his hands as his voice rises to a dangerously wobbling pitch. “And by family, I mean my uncle and me. Because once my father discovered what I could do, he banned me from ever drawing again. I couldn’t take art classes, my notebooks were always checked, everything was laid out for me to do literally _anything_ in the world besides drawing. That’s the whole reason I did poli sci. And I guess that’s the reason why it took so long for me to start drawing again. And even when I do tattoos, I have to concentrate really hard so my thoughts don’t wander into my tattoos. And then _you_ showed up and screwed everything up, and I swear, so help me Agni, if your phoenix turns out to be—”

Sokka’s up in a flash, arms wrapped around Zuko as the tattoo artist teeters on the edge of hyperventilating. “Calm down, Zuko. It’s alright. I’m going to be here for you. I’ll always be here for you. Shh. You don’t have to explain anything else to me.”

Zuko goes quiet for a while, save for the occasional sniff as he buries his head in Sokka’s arms and tentatively clings to Sokka as if his life depends on it. Sokka just stands there, holding Zuko like he’s the only treasure in the world, a broken boy just learning to love himself again. His heart aches for Zuko, and he wonders if things would’ve been different if they had gotten to know each other earlier, if they would’ve been friends, if Zuko would’ve had the chance to enjoy his own artwork.

“There’s no one else besides my family who knows about this. And you.” Zuko mumbles into Sokka’s shirt.

“It’s okay. I’ll keep your promise. Cross my heart and hope to die,” Sokka pulls Zuko up and thumbs away an unshed tear from the tattoo artist’s eye, fingers trembling as he fumbles over the scar. “But that still doesn’t explain the goldfish.”

“I think it would be better if we just. Held hands for a bit.”

“We what now?”

Sokka’s not expecting to see Zuko going from an unhealthy white back to a healthy pink. “Hold hands. It’ll make more sense when you see it.”

“Okay?”

The two of them lace their fingers together hesitatingly, Zuko closing his eyes and humming a sad little tune under his breath. Sokka watches in amazement as the goldfish _moves_ , his arm tingling when the goldfish makes its way down his elbow, past his arm, through his fingers and swimming up Zuko’s right arm and disappearing into his rolled-up shirtsleeve.

“Where did it go?” Sokka’s almost afraid to breathe.

“Back to where it belongs,” Zuko smiles sadly. “It’s okay, Sokka. I understand that this was a lot of information for you to process, and it makes sense if you want to leave—”

“Dude, slow down. Did I ever say that I was going to leave?”

Zuko shakes his head.

“And didn’t I tell you that I’m going to be here for you, no matter what?”

“Wait, why?”

 _Spirits, we’re really just this dumb, aren’t we_. Sokka flicks Zuko’s forehead lightly and kisses him lightly. “Because _I like you, you idiot_. I’ve liked you, ever since I met you for the first time and you yelled at me about walk-ins. I think you’re one of the most talented, one of the most awe-inspiring people I’ve ever met, and I hate to think that you don’t give yourself enough credit for—”

“Sokka.” Zuko’s eyes are shining.

“—just being a—huh?”

“Just shut up and kiss me again.”

“Gotcha.” Sokka surges forward and cups Zuko’s face in his hands before pressing a searing kiss, tongue tracing spirals until the other man’s lips part in a tiny gasp. Zuko tastes sweet, like fresh peaches on a summer’s day. Another quick kiss and Sokka’s lost, fingers running across Zuko’s face, following the angle of his cheekbones, past the rough scar, barely dancing along the eartips.

Sokka plants another lazy kiss on Zuko’s cheek before pulling back, smirking in satisfaction as Zuko’s pupils go wide, a thin line of hazel circling the edges. He drops one, two, three kisses over Zuko’s eyelids before coming to the belated realization that _Sokka Qanik, you are in a public place right now, why are you kissing this beautiful boy silly when you could be_ —

“Is there anywhere we can go—”

“I have a room upstairs,” Zuko whispers, sprinting to lock the front door and to turn off the lights before pulling Sokka through a doorway and up the stairs.

They fall on the bed together, Sokka barely having time to throw his shoes off the edge before Zuko’s kissing him again, all teeth and tongue and _tension_ as Sokka fights his urge to do everything all at once. He almost doesn’t realize how long they’ve been kissing until something sharp nips his upper lip.

“Ow! What the hell—” and he looks down to see that Zuko’s _pouting_ , perfect teeth biting his perfect lip.

“You’re taking too long,” Zuko offers in response. Sokka watches as the tattoo artist reaches back and pulls out the pen from his topknot, his inky black hair a kaleidoscope of calligraphy pooling onto the burgundy sheets below in a flowing script.

“Patience, Zuko. _Patience_.” Sokka can’t wait to take his time ravishing the man in front of him. “We have all night.”

“ _Sokka_ ,” Zuko practically keens as Sokka moves towards his neck, leaving a trail of searing kisses in his wake. The room is entirely too hot and muggy at the same time but he doesn’t want to stop, only wants to worship every inch of Zuko right here, right now. Sokka continues his crusade across Zuko’s collarbones, fingers fumbling to undo the buttons on the front of Zuko’s shirt _and since when did it get so hard to unbutton something?_

There’s a sharp tug, and Sokka reaches back to nurse his pounding head as Zuko twirls a black hair tie around his index finger. “What was that for?”

“I was getting bored.” Zuko reaches towards Sokka’s hair and gives it another sharp pull, chuckling when Sokka winces. “Hurry _up_.”

“Anyone ever told you that you’re one hell of an impatient asshole?”

“Honestly?” and Zuko’s all up in his face, his eyebrow twitching in amusement. “ _You’re the only one_.”

“ _Fuck_.”

“Well,” Zuko laughs again, and it’s a twinkling sound that Sokka wants to hear over and over again for the rest of his life. “You didn’t need to put it so crudely. I think fornication would have sufficed.”

 _Fornication? Really?_ “You’re killing me,” Sokka whines. Leave it to _his_ beautiful tattoo artist to dampen the mood.

“Hm.” Zuko places a finger against Sokka’s lips. “I can’t have you dying before you fuck me, can I?”

(Oh, he’s a feisty one.)

“No take-backs,” Sokka replies, his hands moving even faster to unbutton the rest of Zuko’s shirt, fingers tracing the firm muscle underneath.

Zuko squirms against Sokka’s touch. “As long as I don’t regret this tomorrow.”

“Trust me, you won’t.” Sokka says, sparks dancing across his fingertips as he thumbs the hem of Zuko’s shirt hesitantly. “Can I?”

“And if I said no?”

 _Frick_. Sokka drops his hands to his sides almost immediately, ears tingling in embarrassment. “Then I wouldn’t. Take off your shirt, I mean. I would never do anything to make you uncomfortable.”

He almost jumps in shock when a pale hand pulls on his arm. Zuko looks up at him, honey-amber eyes shining clear and bright. “Well, I didn’t say no. So go ahead.”

Sokka tugs on the hem of Zuko’s shirt again before pulling it all off all at once and the lightbulb goes out in his head. It’s not because Zuko’s toned (because of course he is, with abs like that), and it’s not because Zuko’s all pretty and _abs-so-fucking-lutely_ hot, spread out on the bed like that.

No, it’s definitely because of the tattoo that peeks through when Zuko rolls over to fold up his shirt.

“ _Tattoo_ ,” Sokka whispers, a surge of excitement running through his entire body when he sees it. “I thought you didn’t—Jet never said—”

Zuko arches an eyebrow. “Jet doesn’t know _everything_ about me.” He smirks at Sokka’s dumbfounded reaction. “You want to see it?”

“Um, yeah?”

“Come here,” and Zuko’s pulling on Sokka’s hand again. “Druk doesn’t bite.”

“Druk?”

“You’ll see.” Zuko turns slightly and Sokka’s greeted with a kaleidoscope of colors.

 _Holy fucking shit_.

It’s the goldfish from before—but it also isn’t. There’s a swirl of reds and golds and blacks, tiny shards of color dappling with slivers of white interlaced throughout it all. Long, fluid lines of black round out the outline of a koi rippling furiously against the pale backdrop of skin. The koi’s head rests right between Zuko’s shoulder blades, its body curling downwards and ending in a flickering tail splashing droplets of cerulean and staining Zuko’s tailbone. A tiny ivory lotus rests near the koi’s dorsal fin, its petals unfurling against the waves of white and blue cascading across the entirety of Zuko’s back.

It’s arguably one of the most stunning tattoos Sokka’s seen in his life.

“Whoa,” he runs a shaking finger down Zuko’s spine, the koi practically plunging to life when Zuko shudders slightly.

A hand comes around to bat away at Sokka’s finger. “Stop that.”

“I’m just admiring the artwork,” Sokka replies, begging his eyes to take in every single scale, every single fin on the beautiful creature in front of him.

“You can thank my uncle,” Zuko’s voice is slightly shaky. “Took him two years to finish.”

“My compliments to Iroh. Zuko, this is gorgeous.”

“You can say that aga— _hngh_ ,” Zuko moans when Sokka bends down to kiss the koi on its forehead, then tracing down to the dorsal fin before gently biting down on the tail. “Did I say— _ah, stop that!_ ”

But Sokka can’t help himself, his tongue moving to outline each petal of the lotus blossom, leaving a tiny kiss on each one. Sokka doesn’t even know where his fingers are anymore, only the fact that Zuko’s pressing a bottle in one hand and a packet in the other.

“ _I’m all yours_ ,” Zuko murmurs quietly, and Sokka just about loses it right then and there.

He flips Zuko over, grinning when all the tattoo artist can do is to stare at him in shock. The first finger is tight and Zuko lets out a hiss of curses, even as Sokka takes his time, his finger hooking on the taut ring of muscle as Zuko lets out a stream of babbling moans, body writhing as he scrambles wildly to grab onto anything, everything to steady himself. Sokka leans up to whisper sweet nothings in Zuko’s ear, his other hand circling around a nipple and pinching gently.

“Oh, _Zuko_ ,” Sokka whispers as Zuko wails when he pushes in another finger after a moment. “You’re so good, so _tight_. You’re everything that I’ve ever wanted and more.”

Another sharp tug on his hair brings tears to Sokka’s eyes. Zuko hisses quietly. “So are you going to keep talking, or are you going just _fuck me already?_ ”

“Y’know, I was thinking about teasing you a bit longer,” Sokka hums as he positions himself and pushes in slowly, watching as Zuko arches his back off the bed in a silent scream, “but the second option is just so damn tempting.”

He waits until Zuko’s comfortable, until he stops quivering so much because being inside Zuko is literally the hottest thing imaginable, the way Zuko clenches around him, heartbeat racing when Sokka presses a hand against his chest. Sokka waits for a minute before he begins to thrust, slowly at first, then faster until Zuko’s keening, practically sobbing as Sokka nibbles at his lips and steals his breath for another tongue-bruising kiss.

And then Zuko’s coming, hips bucking wildly as he tightens that much more and Sokka’s self-control is nonexistent, thrusting erratically until his own mind sears white-hot heat against his eyelids.

When Sokka finally manages to pull himself out of Zuko, he collapses on his side, ignoring his aching arms as he wraps Zuko in a hug.

“Zuko?” and even Sokka’s surprised at how rough his voice sounds.

“Hm?” Zuko nuzzles against Sokka’s collarbone. “I’m sleepy.”

“Are you alright?”

“Are you kidding?” Zuko tangles a finger in Sokka’s hair. “I’m fine. Great, actually—no, I feel _fantastic_.”

“Hey, can I ask you something?”

“Hm?”

Sokka’s heart hammers in his chest. “Are we dating?”

He almost misses the sleepy smirk on Zuko’s face. “Isn’t that a second-date type of question?”

“Uh, I guess we kinda, um, took things at our own pace.”

“I would’ve expected nothing less from you, Sokka.”

“Back atcha, sweetheart.”

“What did you just call me?” Zuko whispers, but Sokka’s already drifting off, the euphoria in his mind settling like a warm blanket as he falls asleep.

✦ ✧ ✦

A shriek jolts Sokka out of his dreams about the meat-kebabs from the vendor near the hospital. He flies out of bed, adrenaline coursing through his veins as he makes his way out of the bedroom ( _whose bedroom is this?_ ) and down the hall, following the trail of curses hanging in the air.

Zuko’s standing in the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist, with water dripping from his hair and the color gone from his cheeks, but that’s not the most surprising part.

Sokka gapes.

It’s his tattoo. The koi has disappeared, a swirling, roaring dragon in its place.

“Uncle never told me this would happen,” Zuko mutters darkly. “How was I supposed to know that Druk would become a dragon?”

“Maybe it’s because something good happened?” Sokka walks forward and runs a hand down Zuko’s spine, chuckling as the dragon’s eyes seem to glower at him. He presses another kiss in Zuko’s hair. “You have no idea how _inkredible_ you are, sweetheart.”

And when Sokka shifts slightly and his phoenix brushes against Zuko's dragon just _right_ , Sokka can’t help but laugh at the sparks running up his arm.

**Author's Note:**

> (zuko's tattoo is inspired by the legend of "the dragon's gate." i think it's pretty neat.)  
> (i like to think that sokka/zuko have matching phoenix/dragon tattoos.)
> 
> feel free to let me know what you think!


End file.
